


Sir Thomas Fairwood and the Rather Annoying Specter

by SenseWhatSense



Category: Manifest der Kommunistischen Partei | The Communist Manifesto - Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels
Genre: Communism, Crack, Gen, Ghosts, Historical, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, No Dialogue, Unreliable Narrator, i have no idea what to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenseWhatSense/pseuds/SenseWhatSense
Summary: A ghost is haunting Europe - the ghost of Communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise it: Pope and Tsar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies. So why, pray tell, with opponents like these to concern itself with, does it feel the need to keep bothering him of all people?(aka a 19th century factory owner is being haunted by the specter of Communism and internal-monologes about it)





	Sir Thomas Fairwood and the Rather Annoying Specter

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to know if it was possible to write fanfiction of the Communist Manifesto. This is the result. I'm not sure if I would call it a success, but it sure is something.
> 
> Also, I wrote this in one go at 1:30 AM. So there is that.

A ghost is haunting Europe - the ghost of Communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise it: Pope and Tsar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies. So why, pray tell, with opponents like these to concern itself with, does it feel the need to keep bothering _him_ of all people?

This was the question which Sir Thomas Fairwood asked himself not for the first time, as he was informed of yet another machine mysteriously breaking down in his factory. He knew it was the specters doing - it always was. Ever since last summer the bloody thing had been interfering in his perfectly honest work. He'd seen it, a handful of times, translucent and coated in a peculiar red mist. It's beard had been terribly out of style and it had worn paupers rags. No sense of class, that thing.

He had tried to have it exorcised, of course, but to no avail. The poor excuse for a priest which he had called to do so had, after failing to do his work, even had the nerve to suggest that Thomas should try to appease that nuisance of a spirit. Perhaps, he'd had the audacity to tell him, the specter would leave of it's own accord if he were to treat the factory workers kinder. Kinder! As though he did not already show more leniency than those peasants deserved! Had he not just last week let one of those useless boys keep his work, even after the fool had cost him a good hours profits getting his leg into the machinery like that? There was many a factory owner who would have had him on the street for that, and right he would have been, but not Thomas. Kinder! As if those peasants didn't like to forget their place often enough as it was!

No, if that spectre thought it could force his hand like that, it was sorely mistaken. The machines breaking down was unfortunate, perhaps, it certainly cost him more profit than he would have liked. But he was paying those ungrateful urchins too much anyway.

Recently the situation had admittedly become a tad more concerning. A few days ago, one of the foremen had begun to hear the specter speaking. It spoke as any uneducated man would, unsurprisingly, and it had barely been audible. The worker hadn't heard it, the foreman claimed. A good thing that was, too, with the sort of dangerous nonsense the thing was apparently spouting. But alas, as long as it's absurd claims continued to go unheard by those fools uneducated enough to believe them there was little need to interfere. And anyway, how much harm could a peasants ghost possibly do, when all was said and done, besides being a nuisance to honest men like him?


End file.
